


i'll miss your face like hell

by homesickblues



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Angst, College, Fluff, M/M, Multi, OOC pretty much i'm sorry, also i guess i made them american? idk, for combeferre/grantaire week, hey grantaire's pretty good with split decisions eh, let it be known that i tried, mostly word vomit, sudden probably not wise decisions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-13
Updated: 2013-08-13
Packaged: 2017-12-23 08:37:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/924200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/homesickblues/pseuds/homesickblues
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What hurts is that Grantaire has a steady job in the city. Grantaire has a great contract with an art studio just around the corner. Grantaire finds the student-priced housing ideal for his lifestyle. Grantaire is going to get all new roommates and be in the same house without the ones he loves and trusts. What hurts this time is that <i>he</i> isn’t changing, but everything around him is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i'll miss your face like hell

**Author's Note:**

> Rated Mature for language.

It’s one of those moments when the air in the room feels so thick with unsaid things and dread that if one were to reach up it would feel as if they were running their fingers through water. Grantaire feels as if he’s drowning in it, and he can’t take a full breath. He also can’t look up from the hole forming in the knee of his jeans which he is currently plucking at with acrylic-stained fingers. Because if he were to look up and glance at the equally pale and troubled faces of his friends, his _family_ , he doesn’t know if he could keep himself from utterly losing it and making a fool out of himself. And it’s 6pm and he’s sober, so he doesn’t even have a valid excuse for losing it other than _who the fuck told you guys you could leave? Who the fuck let any of us grow up? Why didn’t I have a say in this decision?_

And that wouldn’t even be valid, because who the fuck he is to keep his friends from living their dreams? He knows he’d never ask any of them not to go. But Grantaire, like many non-adaptive species on earth, doesn’t enjoy vast and total change. He can handle change in pieces; Bahorel moving out a few months ago to live with his long-time girlfriend across the city, Bossuet dropping out of school his second-to-last year to help his parents mortgage their house with triple shifts at the closest Taco Bell/KFC combo drive-thu, and even Cosette moving in with them, being the first girl to live in their house who wasn’t Éponine, but she hardly counted as she was “one of the dudes”. 

But no, this is different. This is a bigger change than the time he packed up and moved out of the two-bedroom apartment he lived in with his single mother and little sister and into a house full of strangers who would soon become the most important people in his word. This change involves losing _everyone_. The notion itself makes bile rise in his throat.  
He hears a noise, sharp and upset, and looks up, alerted. Marius, across the room, is perched on the arm of a loveseat, his hand clasped over his mouth and his big green eyes swarmed with tears. 

“Marius?” Courfeyrac asks instantly from the floor in front of the couch, his legs splayed wide. He’s below Jehan, who is sat cross-legged on the couch, his fingers laced into Courfeyrac’s mess of curls. He doesn’t look up like his fiancé does at the distressed noise, because he knows exactly what it is. He, like Grantaire, isn’t ready to face this. 

“This will never happen again,” Marius whimpers, his face twisted in emotional profoundness, “This scene will never happen again. All of us, sitting around, together. Never.” 

“Hush,” Cosette says from beside him, squeezing his arm, “That’s no way to think.”

“He’s right.” Enjolras, leaning against the doorframe, concurs gravely without meeting anyone’s eyes. No one has ever seen Enjolras cry before, but Grantaire had heard Jehan telling Feuilly that morning that he swore he heard him sobbing softly late last night. It wouldn’t surprise anyone; Enjolras never truly had a family except for the people sitting in this oversized sitting room. It doesn’t matter that he’s leaving to travel to DC on a one-in-a-billion internship which will change his life, and hopefully future political career, forever. 

“Maybe we shouldn’t discuss it.” Jehan pipes up finally, his voice soft. Grantaire knows Jehan well enough to know that if he spoke any louder his voice would crack and quiver and he wouldn’t be able to barricade his emotions down in his chest anymore. He also wishes Jehan wasn’t feeling this sadness, because tomorrow he and Courf are headed to Cannes to be with Courfeyrac’s parents before they set off to travel the world for two years, something they had planned to do since their first year in university, before they were even together. Grantaire smiles the tiniest bit trying to imagine Courfeyrac riding a camel through the Nubian Desert, but then that thought turns bitter as well. The smile disappears. 

“Why not, though?” Combeferre speaks for the first time in maybe hours from the other end of the sofa, “We have to face this at some point.” 

_Easy for you to say,_ Grantaire thinks, _you’re going off to fucking France, to fucking Montpellier to become some big-shot neurosurgeon making a three-figure salary and saving lives like some kind of super hero._

“No we don’t,” Jehan counters back, unafraid of Combeferre’s wisdom when it comes to these matters, “We can go on with the delusion that tomorrow will be like any other day for the past four years.”

“It’s a Thursday,” Joly concedes timidly from one of the cushions on the floor, “we could pretend we’re all headed to the Musain for an ABC meeting.” 

Joly is also off to pursue a doctorate in medicine, maybe not to the exact scale of Combeferre, but his dreams are unfolding as well. 

This only makes Grantaire more depressed, make his fingers twitch even more over the loose threads from alcohol withdrawals. But he promised Feuilly, who is going to soon be fulfilling his dream of launching an online business in hand-painted fans and getting his own apartment, that he wouldn’t spend their last night together drunk, and he said he wouldn’t touch the stuff. Grantaire might be a lot of things, but he isn’t a liar.

“Good idea.” Jehan smiles warmly at the slender man, making him smile back. Grantaire is pretty sure those are the first smiles he’d seen in days. It warms him slightly, like the first breath of sunshine-filled air. 

Éponine, who has been as silent as Grantaire during this entire exchange – possibly contemplating her imminent move to the west coast to pursue an acting career- crosses her arms. “Yeah. We’re all going to the café tomorrow. Enjolras will rant at us for three hours about the anti-egalitarian reformation of current western or westernized government. And then we’ll get smashed at the Corinthe and sing Sweet Child of Mine while R dances on the table.”

Everyone smiles then, but their eyes also turn to the mentioned and make him feel claustrophobic. He tries to smile, but can’t. He simply can’t entertain the thought that he might not see some of these faces again. The thought makes him actually feel violently ill, and he stands and hurries outside, scooping up his pack of fags on the way. He doesn’t hear any protests behind him, which he’s glad for. If he’d heard even a ‘stop’, he could have, maybe. Or he might have collapsed. He makes it outside onto their front porch and sinks onto a step and sticks his cigarette in his mouth. It’s only then he realizes he doesn’t have a light and swears under his breath, burying his face in his hand. 

What hurts is that Grantaire’s not leaving. 

What hurts is that Grantaire has a steady job in the city. Grantaire has a great contract with an art studio just around the corner. Grantaire finds the student-priced housing ideal for his lifestyle. Grantaire is going to get all new roommates and be in the same house without the ones he loves and trusts. What hurts this time is that _he_ isn’t changing, but everything around him is.

He curls his fingers into his black locks and tugs, trying to push the thoughts out of his mind, but they seem stuck there like hardened concrete. He doesn’t notice Combeferre sit next to him, warm and solid, for a good three minutes until a sudden sharp breath startles him. 

“Need a light?” 

Grantaire nodded, unable to look at him yet. He hurts all over. He hurts on an out of body level. He hurts in third person.

“I normally wouldn’t condone this behavior.” Combeferre says evenly as he struck a match and Grantaire inhales the harsh smoke into his lungs too quickly, making him cough, “But you look like you could really use a smoke.” 

“Four years of seeing my ugly mug has taught you something about me after all.” Grantaire really means it to sound bitter and spiteful, but instead he kind of sounds like a wounded animal. Combeferre stays silent for the longest time, his breathing even and his gaze turned out onto the street. Finally, after Grantaire flicks away the first centimeter of ash, he speaks. 

“You’re not ugly, Grantaire.” 

Grantaire reacts all too quickly with a snort of laughter. 

“Really? Not much hard evidence against the fact, Mr. Science. Could you corroborate this theory?”

“It’s only observational,” Combeferre says like a sad sigh, and Grantaire really tries to laugh again but suddenly he feels sick again, so he just shoves the cigarette back into his mouth and waits for the soon-to-be doctor to continue. 

“It’s observational, but it’s been a controlled experiment laid out over the course of several years… four, to be exact.” He seemed to find an ease in Grantaire’s scientific euphemism, finding something he knew leaps and bounds about to use as a tool for his meaning, “It hasn’t been a perfect experiment. There was no control, no hypothesis or prediction. Simply the data. The subject has changed so indefinitely since I first began observing him. He was quiet, shy, skittish, and bitterly sarcastic toward all of us. He acted like he couldn’t trust any of us. But then, he opened up and it was really the most beautiful thing. He has immense beauty inside of him. He’s incredibly kind and loyal to those he cares about. He would die for any one of us and I know this as a fact. But he’s not ugly outside, though he believes he is no matter what anyone says.” Combeferre reaches up and grazed his fingers against his stubble for emphasis. 

“Why are you saying this?” Grantaire breathes, his eyes wide and confused, scanning repeatedly over his friend’s face for reason.

“Because,” Combeferre begins but cuts off, his eyes diverting downward as if ashamed, “Because I… god, I’m such an egotistical idiot.”

“Spit it out.” Grantaire feels himself saying more than hears it.

“Because I want you to come with me. Because I _love you_.” 

And there it is. The words hang in the air and Grantaire suddenly isn’t breathing anymore, because there it is. There they are, under the stars and the clouds and Combeferre _loves him_ and _wants him to go with him_ and Grantaire _can’t breathe._

At Grantaire’s slack jawed expression, Combeferre backtracks in a panic. 

“Of course, it’s an open-ended offer. I know it’s… sudden. It’s so sudden. I feel like shit for asking, but every time I try to imagine waking up without smelling the coffee you make that’s so strong it’s almost syrup, or seeing you come downstairs with paint all over you looking like you just finished painting the Sistine Chapel… I ache. I ache so bad it makes me want to give up everything and stay. With you. Here.” 

“You can’t do that.” Grantaire barely whispers, the cigarette shaking in his hands. 

“I know.” Combeferre sighs, taking off his glasses to rub at the lenses with his sleeve, “I know I can’t. And it’s so selfish of me to ask you to come. You have a life here. You have a job and your art is being admired by all of these important people…”

“Combeferre.” Grantaire stops him and looks up, his eyes swimming with shock, “I… don’t know what to say.” 

“Then don’t say anything. It’s an offer. You take it or you don’t.” He stands and returns inside, leaving Grantaire alone and feeling like his heart might beat its way out of his ribcage. 

His lungs finally strain for air, forcing him to inhale a gasp. He feels like getting up and running, but he also feels like drinking himself to sleep. He goes inside, numbly, to find that Combeferre’s already retired for the night. Jehan smiles sadly at him standing in the door way looking so lost, and gets up and embraces him tightly. 

“Courf and I are heading out early tomorrow. Catching the 6am train. I doubt you’ll be up. We’re headed to bed.”

Grantaire hates this, he hates Combeferre for throwing this at him, because now he can’t even concentrate on being horrifyingly sad about his friends leaving forever. 

“I love you guys.” He manages through the lump in his throat, and Jehan only hugs him tighter. 

“We love you too.” Courfeyrac smiles and clasps his shoulder. 

“Safe travels. All of you.” He looks around the room, raw-eyed. Enjolras nods once, smiling a bit. Joly, from where he’s snuggled with Éponine, tears up and burrows into her further. The rest must have already turned in or gone up to finish packing.

Grantaire gives them all a brave smile and goes up to his own room. He sits at his canvas, but nothing comes to him. The thought of picking up his brush makes him feel exhausted. 

Despite this feeling, he should’ve known this would keep him up all night. He keeps running scenarios through his head, different outcomes, different ways he’d be miserable, or ruin everything. He keeps hearing Combeferre’s voice, _I love you_ , and every time he feels sea sick. 

_He loves me,_ he thinks. _He loves me? When did that happen?_ How _did that happen?_

France, his job, Combeferre, his contract, Combeferre loves him… his mind is a painful game of Ping-Pong and it eventually not so much as lulls but confuses him into unconsciousness, his mind still spinning dizzily. 

*

Combeferre wakes up and knows Grantaire’s still asleep. He smells no coffee, hears no movement from the room next to him. It hurts, but he’s used to hurt. Pain is a message delivered to the brain by the nervous system. Emotional pain isn’t real pain. He’ll still be able to walk, and talk, and live. He thinks, at least. He drags his feet as he packs his last few items and leaves for the airport after having an hour-long Skype call with his mother. By all means, he shouldn’t be this tired. It’s going to make his flight seem twice as long. The coffee he gets at the airport after going through security tastes like bitter water and doesn’t help at all with the feeling of melancholy he can’t escape. The terminal is cold and he has an hour wait. He doesn’t touch his phone; he can’t bear to look at any of the messages from his friends until after he’s already landed. Leaving takes a certain amount of motivation to begin with, and for now, he feels he has to cut all of his ties temporarily in order to even get on the plane.  
He’s finally called to board, so he stands and pats his pockets, as he’s used to, to make sure he has everything before scooping up his carry-on and pulling out his ticket. One-way. 

“You were really going to leave without saying goodbye?” Combeferre turns, stunned at the voice, and looks straight into Grantaire’s eyes. Grantaire is smiling softly, toting with him his guitar and canvas pad strapped over his back. 

“I…” Combeferre has no words. He barely has air in his lungs and is no longer aware of the flight attendant waving him forward with an annoyed look in her eyes. He steps out of line in reaction to the pointed angry sigh behind him and approaches the bright-eyed artist cautiously. 

“I thought-“ 

“Clearly you didn’t think enough.” Grantaire laughs, “As uncharacteristic as that is. Tell me, would you miss me if I said no?”

“Yes.” Combeferre says without much thought again, because Grantaire’s lips are _there_ and he’s _here_ and the airplane’s _about to leave_. 

“Well, I guess it’s a good thing I’m an impulsive, lonely man. Who realized late last night that, yes, I love you too.”

Combeferre now feels like he’s floating, hovering above the earth. Grantaire does a bit too, and his lips are _there_ , and then they’re kissing and dropping their bags and clutching at each other like the other might dissolve into some sort of sleep-deprived lie if they simply let go. And Combeferre realizes that he’s an idiot for waiting so long, for trying to talk himself out of this. 

“But,” He protests because it’s all he knows how to do, “What about your job? The contract?”

“Called them all this morning and quit. Any good art galleries in Montpellier?” Grantaire whispers like a secret, his smile blinding. Combeferre laughs softly and nods. 

“I’m sure. It’s France, after all.” 

“Sirs! The plane is leaving!” They’re interrupted by the flight attendant from before, looking more than flustered. 

“We’re coming!” Grantaire laughs, and pulls him forward without a single moment of hesitation. 

And then, change.

**Author's Note:**

> My tumblr can be found [here](http://www.beaumarbre.tumblr.com).
> 
> This is far from the best thing I've ever written, but I spent time on it and finished it, so I figured I'd toss it out there just because. I worked on making R in character but I'm fairly sure Combeferre is pretty out of character which makes me sad. But at least I'm aware of these things, eh? 
> 
> Thanks to [Paige](http://www.anglosaxonmonk.tumblr.com) for helping to kick my ass to finish and helping me figure out how to end it.


End file.
